


Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm

by orphan_account



Series: A-Z of Kink: House [4]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depeche Mode - Freeform, Dysfunctional AF, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Greg House, Hurt James Wilson (House M.D.), M/M, Make up sex, Romantic Angst, Season 5 Episode 4 Birthmarks, Sexual Content, Songfic, no kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23135086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: OVER 18 ONLY. DO NOT READ OR INTERACT IF UNDER 18.A-Z of Kink: F is for ForbiddenSummary: Tonight is about them. A friendship so diabolically dysfunctional that it has no business even existing. An understanding so stark that even the coldest words spoken out of hurt can be forgiven. A love too chaotic not to be authentic.Or, what happened in my head after the end of Birthmarks.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Series: A-Z of Kink: House [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620808
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	Words are very unnecessary, they can only do harm

**Author's Note:**

> This tag is very quiet at the moment!
> 
> I didn't fancy writing any of the kinks I could think of that began with F. What I did fancy writing was some emotional Hilson so I kind of just did my own thing. Thanks to everyone who has kudo'ed and commented so far, it means a lot that other people are getting something out of my downtime shenanigans!
> 
> Title from Enjoy the Silence by Depeche Mode. The fic is vaguely based on the song.

As a rule, they only ever fucked when House was at his most desperate.

It was never meant to be something that was good for them, which was half the point. House, as always, would be seeking mental analgesia, something to take the edge off of being alive. And Wilson, as always, would justify his participation to himself by choosing to believe that he was helping. He would decide that he was soothing House somehow, by joining him in such rebellion; by allowing himself to be stripped and groped and mouthed at. Still, it would never be long before the idea that he was indulging House would be forgotten entirely, and Wilson would mire himself in the rush of touching his best friend in the exact place he should never touch him. He'd never experienced anything quite as exciting as hearing House moan for him, of seeing him so alight and so vulnerable; never had he unwound the leash he pulled so tightly on himself as he did when he was plunging his fingers into the one person he was never supposed to fuck.

The thrill was almost too much to bear, the zeal of it bordering on aggression. They were forever aware of avoiding a tender moment, the danger of that particular territory. It needed to be sordid, taboo. Any moment of silence needed to be filled. House would spill dirty words into his ear, vulgar phrases that would make a hooker blush, and they would fuel Wilson's animalism, his rough hands and deep thrusts and the graze of his teeth. He would allow himself to grunt and growl and huff as he never had with anyone else as he took House on beds, couches, up against walls, before the infarction made such a thing impossible. They would be exhausted by the time they came, raw-throated and dry-mouthed and broken.

In the immediate aftermath, they still wouldn't kiss. The closest to it they could manage, _wanted_ to manage, was to cling, wide eyed, noses pressed into clammy necks, shoulders; to inhale the richness of each other. Their scents would match. The musk of sex. The malodour of shame. Then House would feel pathetic, and Wilson would feel guilty, and neither of them would know what to say.

In the ensuing days, House would accuse Wilson of _being_ pathetic, and Wilson would shoot back that House was too stoned to know what he was even doing, as he wrote him out another script. After all, they fought about everything. It wasn't easy to fight about this - _them_ \- but if they had any hope of applying a shred of normality to it, they had to. The understanding was telepathic: if it started to feel too weird, they would have to stop. And stopping, back then at least, was not an option.

After a few days, things would go back to normal. Wilson embraced it, despite his unwelcome thoughts, edged with regret; his reflection that he would have liked to hold House in the act, rather than dig his nails into his arms as though he had to negate his need for closeness by hurting him. Despite how often he would catch House glancing at him with something longing and wistful in his eyes, how sometimes his eyebrows would knit and his lips would rub together, like he wanted to vocalise his thoughts. But he never did, and Wilson was smart enough to avoid bringing it up. Even if the urge sometimes suffocated him.

Drowning is usually silent.

Just as they became used to acting like it never happened, House would get desperate all over again. It was frequent in the early days after the infarction, as he adjusted to life with a disability. He would always show up at Wilson's door when he lost a patient, when he was defeated by their symptoms and brimming with self-loathing. He needed a distraction from his fear when Cameron pursued him, his hope when Stacy came back, his hurt when he made Stacy leave. Then again, House always needed things: pills, a drinking buddy, a fuck to make it all go away. And Wilson would always give them to him. He would grizzle about it all. He would argue, he would grumble. He would say mean things, because it helped, and House would respond with even worse, because it hurt.

Talk was cheap, a shield. Talk protected them.

It felt hopeless.

**

Amber Volakis was a woman who knew how to use her words. Her tongue was versatile; if you pissed her off, it was razorblade sharp. If you held her close and told her she was amazing, she'd respond that she loved you in a tone so soft and lulling, one that sounded nothing like her at all; he'd feel special, like this tender side to her was reserved just for him. Wilson was addicted to the normalcy of it all. He was giddy in love with the idea of a conventional relationship. Unlike House, Amber was an entirely permitted mate. She was a woman, a doctor. Smart, funny, sexy. She was exactly the kind of person one would expect to see on Wilson's arm.

Wilson wasn't entirely blind to the fact that Amber was a bit like House. A lot like House, actually. Enough that people noticed, drew comparisons. But Wilson ignored them. Amber was not _actually_ House, and that could, he insisted to himself, only be a good thing.

House seemed to intuitively understand, from the moment he found out, that this woman, unlike all the others, meant the end of his and Wilson's liaisons. Wilson would have liked to tell him properly, to sit down and explain why it would be wrong to carry on. But they never talked about the sex, and the rules hadn't changed. Besides, nobody ever sits down to talk with House. It's a waste of time and breath.

Sometimes, he would watch Amber sleeping, watch his fingers roam idly through her soft hair, and wonder if it was possible to love two people at once.

When he and House were alone, Wilson couldn't hide from the signs of his desperate moments. There'd be the bad pain days. There'd be the periods of depression when the anatomy of a case defeated him. Sometimes, Wilson knew _he_ was the cause of House's discomfort, by the simple act of being in a relationship and having less time for him. But, as painful as it was, Wilson couldn't soothe him anymore.

It hurt him that House and Amber refused to get along, but after all that had transpired between them both, it didn't surprise him. It was fascinating and savage to watch them war with each other, to hear them trade insults and condescending declarations. Every now and then, Wilson would catch a niggle of hurt in House's eyes, a quiver of barely concealed rage in Amber's lips, and he would feel helpless and sorry.

Shouldn't. _Wouldn't._

It had never mattered when he was married, or when House was dating Stacy. But Amber was different.

Wilson would have liked to tell House that Amber was a good thing; that she forced their friendship back into normality. That she put a much needed stop to this stupid, immature, fucking _game_, kept a lid on their dysfunction enough to stop them ending up in bed with each other. Doing things that friends never should. It was about time they both grew up and lived normal lives. Amber, he longed to tell House, was a sign.

But he never said any of this aloud, because he could imagine what House's guttural response would be: "_wow. You really are an idiot."_

Wilson didn't trust himself to hear that, knowing it would be all the permission he needed to start biting House's neck. To start pulling at his clothes. So they engaged in their usual banter, their pointless arguments, and Wilson chastised and House deflected, and they each longed for the rush of the forbidden. When Wilson was feeling especially guilty, he would tell himself that it served House right for never saying anything when he had the chance, wilfully ignoring the fact that he himself had committed the same crime.

Perhaps it was the lack of conversation about it all that drove House and Amber further apart. Stoked the violence of their words. Perhaps if Amber had known about what Wilson and House had done for so many years, she'd feel jealous of House; she would have left him to make his own way home from the bar that night out of spite. She would, like the rest of the world, have decided (wisely) that House was a dick and any unfortunate situation he got himself into was entirely his fault. That was, if she would even want to stay with Wilson after learning such a thing about him.

Perhaps it was the fear she would run from him that led Wilson to keep such a loaded secret. If she left him, it would hurt, it would cause pain that Wilson couldn't even anticipate, and he would probably never get over it. But at least she'd still be alive.

If Amber could be snatched away so easily by a freak accident, House could be too. If House's stupid antics could lead to getting Amber killed, however indirectly, they could do the same for him.

If his mind wasn't so swollen with House, his heart so full with everything unsaid, he could have loved Amber better while he still had the chance.

Wilson had to leave. There was no other option.

**

John House wasn't so much snatched away as quietly removed from the earth. Wilson hadn't been surprised when Blythe called; he knew John was ill. He coated his words in his best oncologist's voice as she wept down the phone, his insides burning with nausea as she asked him to make sure House attended the funeral to pay his respects. "No" is not a word that Wilson uses often, one that tastes wrong and unpleasant in his mouth. One that has especially never settled well into his vocabulary when it comes to House.

As he and Cuddy loaded a knocked out, deadweight House into his car, he declared that his involvement ended with driving him to the funeral. As soon as House was back in his apartment that night, Wilson would continue to map out a whole new life. He wasn't going back. He fucking _wasn't._

But what about the next time? The time after that, when a House Situation arose, and the only person anyone could think to call would be Wilson?

Easier to just stick around. Easier to tell House he'd reversed his decison to leave because he'd had fun. Comforting to tell himself he missed their friendship, that he never really wanted to go anyway.

House has always said that people don't change.

Wilson can taste it: tonight, House is desperate again. Because his dad is dead, because his dad was never even his dad. Because he knew it all along. On the drive home from the hospital, House slouches in the passengers seat of Wilson's car, smelling of scotch and mumbling curses at idiot drivers. Wilson repeatedly licks his dry lips, exhausted from the driving and the bitching and the smashing church windows. He thinks of Amber, and wonders if he's losing his mind.

He steals glances at House, just quickly, just occasionally; just enough not to arouse suspicion. Just as he's done for years. He longs to hate himself for returning. He longs to tell himself that House is a big boy and he doesn't need him. But the former is not happening, and the latter is a total lie.

Tonight, Wilson is desperate too. Perhaps that's why when he follows House into his apartment, he stops them in the hallway. He grabs House's hand, limp and rigid in his, and waits for his head to turn; waits to be told to fuck off.

House doesn't pull away.

Wilson closes his eyes when House's lips, softer than he ever imagined, finally meet his. There's no thrill. No excitement, in tasting what is forbidden. No rush, no rough hands shoving one another up against walls. It's just a kiss, a simple _kiss._ The most basic precursor to sexual activity, the rawest sign of affection, yet never exchanged between them until now.

It's different. So different that Wilson dares to put his arms around House's waist, and House collapses against him as if he's been waiting his whole life for permission to do so.

They kiss, and they embrace, and they kiss and _kiss, _and House is as raw as Wilson has ever seen him. Tonight, House is concealing nothing. He's long since shed his usual theatrics, his ritual cruelty, the razorblade humour. House is _hurting_. He's so nakedly hurting that Wilson doesn't have to be cunning, manipulative about comforting him. He doesn't have to worry that House will spook and reject him with cutting words and selective deafness when he releases all he's been holding in a quivering, longing sigh against his mouth.

And House doesn't have to worry that Wilson will pounce on his sincerity, make an example of it, as he draws back and parts his lips. His irises are shining, all the words he desperately wants to release locked up in his throat. But right now, there's no need.

Wilson is in pieces, as he cups House's face in his hands. He doesn't trust himself to speak, even if he wanted to; his eyes are glistening, his throat burning. House exhales hotly, and his lashes are wet, and Wilson can barely stand it. He's driven to press his lips to House's again with a gentle urgency, and House doesn't protest.

Never has Wilson felt so vulnerable. Never has House seemed so pitiful. Never have they caressed each other's flanks with slow exploration, without racing to strip and skip to the act. Never has Wilson allowed House to hold the back of his head, his grip gentle rather than demanding, and slide his tongue into his mouth. His shoulders heave occasionally, and Wilson's ribcage contracts with the effort of trying to be strong for him, but it's no use. They're falling apart in one another's arms, and it's completely, entirely, permitted.

By the time they reach House's bedroom, their eyes are cracked red and their cheeks are damp. They'd be mortified at the mere notion of letting anyone else see them so tired, so broken, but with each other, they're safe.

As they lie down, House clings to Wilson as if he'll disappear all over again, and Wilson clings right back to tell him not be afraid, even though he himself is terrified. He's lonely, and he's aching. It feels like grief is all he's ever known. Even as he holds House, as he kisses him and strokes his face and muffles a sob between their lips, he thinks of Amber. Holding House is so different; the lack of curves on his body, his hands larger and roughened when Wilson clasps them together. It's jarring, and it takes some time to adjust. It almost makes him hesitate, when he reflects on how he's insisted to himself on sleepless night after foggy day that he would never again touch anyone else like this. He'd never taint Amber's memory. But this is House, and the rules have never applied to him.

Besides, none of it changes the fact that Amber is gone.

They continue to kiss, like lovers, as they remove each other's clothes with care, as if peeling back the lies they've told themselves over the years. Their bodies, now, are radically different than when all of this began; their bellies are softer, swollen with middle age and a penchant for late night pizza. House's bad thigh is riddled with scar tissue, Wilson's face bears the cracks of a man who spends his life worrying about everyone except himself. It's not lost on House that his pain is getting so much worse, and it's not lost on Wilson that he's not as good looking as he once was. They've hurt each other, they've damaged each other. But they've never needed each other quite like this.

Their time apart feels distant and painful, like fragmented memories of a childhood nightmare.

Once they're naked, they lay still on their sides. Their breaths are heavy with wonder rather than lust. Words have no place. Their heads are nestled on one pillow, and Wilson maps out House's face with his eyes as he savours the warmth of House's chest pressed up against his, the comfort of their intertwined limbs. There's no rush, no urgency. This is different. Forbidden fucks are thrilling and cheap, and the hangover is bitter. But nothing about this feels like something Wilson isn't supposed to do.

In fact, he doesn't know what else he _is _supposed to do but run his fingertips across House's bare chest; to gently roll him onto his back and hold onto his hip as he trails his lips across his stomach, taking his hand as House grunts softly. He never imagined that it would feel so exhilarating to allow himself the chance to truly enjoy House's body, like he has never done; to use his lips, his hands, to stake out the spots that make House's breath hitch. To shift until he's kneeling between House's thighs, holding his face in one hand while the other takes his cock. He leans down for another kiss, losing himself in the eagerness with which House returns it, as he grants his length a few experimental strokes. House doesn't moan his impatience, doesn't grab his wrist with silent insistence that he go faster, like he might have done before. He's still and quiet beneath him, the escalation of his breath the only tell of his pleasure, his desire. He doesn't need to insist it through wanton moans, bucking hips, dirty talk. Tonight is not about that.

Tonight is about them. A friendship so diabolically dysfunctional that it has no business even existing. An understanding so stark that even the coldest words spoken out of hurt can be forgiven. A love too chaotic not to be authentic.

Their mouths are open, pressed together as Wilson guides himself into House, mutual gasps at the connection, the sensation, trapped between them. Mixed up in all of it, there's a shared understanding that things are far from okay. Amber lingers, the emptiness of grief, and Wilson hurts and hurts. House will relive his childhood over the next few weeks, and he's terrified of the pain lying in wait for him. But they're here, and in this moment, things are as close to normal as they can be.

Hands lock together in ecstasy, pleasure is shared rather than chased and grabbed for. There's nothing urgent, nothing debauched, nothing they'll skirt around the topic of later at best and joke about at worst. It's not for fun. It's intensely personal. It's the most honest conversation they've ever had. It's stripping back the shouldn'ts and the forbiddens and the cheap thrills and the grief and the dysfunction so they can find themselves underneath.

Fingers grasp at biceps, clumsy with ecstasy; eyes close for mere moments, forced open again by the threat of drifting away and missing this. Lips join, vibrations, hums of bliss trapped in near continuous open mouthed kisses. Faces are stroked. Calves rub together. Chests are caressed. Wilson rolls his hips in a slow delirium, rocking into House with purpose in every thrust. House is quiet and wide-eyed beneath him, as Wilson's lungs thrust deep sighs with each movement.

Words are not spoken, nor are they needed. Wilson makes love to House as if they'll die tomorrow, and never has he seemed so fragile and so raw and so beautiful. Salty trails wet his lips as he kisses every inch of House's face, unsure at this point whether he's tasting House's pain or his, and he's never felt more sure in his life that he's exactly where he belongs.

For the first time, there is comfort in silence.


End file.
